Origin of Time
by ContinuousQuestionMark
Summary: A lost boy scattered through history by invading Daleks must grow to become a Gallifreyan legend if he is to one day defeat the greatest ever threat to the Pythia's eternal reign - the Omega.
1. The Cat and the Bird

There was no way out. The Dalek eye stared deeply into Percy's eyes. And Percy's eyes returned the stare into that of the Dalek. One eye met two. Natural, complicated and wonderful brown eyes met a hazy blue glow, light at the end of a dark and soulless stream of metal. Nothing would get between them, not now, not ever. The brown eyes were unblinking. And Percy wasn't sure whether the blue one could blink. The room consisted solely of Percy and the Dalek, but an eerie silence competed ruthlessly with them for the space.

All of that changed in a heartbeat, as the complementary lights to the side of the Dalek's stalk began to flash a threatening shade of white.

"Ex-" Some noise, finally.

Percy looked around in equal levels of fear and confusion. Unlike his lab, he was unarmed. Engineers didn't need guns to fight. Their weapons were their minds. Brilliant, creative minds. The Time Agency had put together a perfect defence of the facility, developed by generation after generation of geniuses, each improving the work of the last, for almost 200 years. Time locks. Time traps. Unexpected gateways to the time vortex. Nothing had managed to work its way through the entire time. Nothing. The building was impenetrable.

"-Ter-"

Until now. Buried deep underground and gradually developed over the past three thousand years, the _Torchwood Three_ hub had been built to address and utilise the rift in time and space which sat, unnoticed by all who chose not to see it, directly under the centre of the city of Cardiff. Percy took what seconds remained to allow himself a good look at the inside. The charismatic red brick walls. The tunnelled interior. The desks covered in partially-destroyed lasers and other high-tech equipment, which the Dalek had made light work of. And of course, the door, which had been reduced to a pile of metal upon the ground by the Dalek's firepower, just seconds earlier.

"-Min-"

Percy's death became very real. His life and all that was in it flashed before his eyes. How did he get here?

His time engineering degree certainly helped. Despite a difficult first year, he had, somehow clawed his way through to a grade beta and, finally, his dream job as an engineer for the Time Agency. As a boy, he would play with toy vortex manipulators and pretend that he could jump across dimensions, across time. And for every hour spent enjoying this fantasy, he would spend at least ten trying to 'tweak' his manipulator and try to understand just how a person could hop from one time to another. Maybe if he had known where that would get him, he might have found the sense to stay away? _No_. He could never have swapped his shortened life for a longer one without time in it.

"-Ate."

 _More memories_. Percy remembered how he had met Kirsten. He remembered how quickly he had fallen in love with her. Her bright smile. Her positive, yet sharp, witty nature. That was eleven years ago now, and none of this had changed. He remembered how happy he was on their wedding day. Then the day their son was born. Rhys had arrived into the world with Percy's hazy brown eyes, and Kirsten's luscious golden hair, and he had been beautiful from that day forward. Bringing him up for the past six years was by far the greatest challenge Percy had ever faced, but the greatest privilege he could imagine. _My son will grow up without a father_ , he reflected, _and I will never see what my boy will become._ And then there was Kirsten. _She will grow old without me_ , he realised, _and I can never be there for her again_.

The pause after the Dalek's endless cry was far too long. Brown eyes met blue glow once again. _The Dalek can kill me_ , Percy knew, _but it cannot change my final thoughts. Of Kirsten. Of Rhys. My beautiful family._

A _zap_ screamed through Percy's ears. He did not want to look at the gun as it happened. He had had enough. And, very soon, it was all over, as Percy began to fall backwards.

* * *

He caught himself by firmly placing his left leg behind his right. Slowly, he turned around, to examine the world he had not left. _Wh- what just- what?_

Percy took a deep breath. In. Out. In. Out. He thought- _Wait, how am I thinking? Hang on- I'm alive?_

Brown eyes met blue glow once more. Daleks don't _miss_ … do they? _No! Daleks never miss!_

A new silence formed. It competed with the original silence for the space inside the room.

The new silence was broken by a second _zap_. _Childhood, university, admittance to the Time Agency, Kirsten, Rhys_ … everything flowed through Percy's memory as quickly as it had before. And, once again… nothing. Percy blinked. He had become less expectant of death this time, although the Dalek's apparent incapability to exterminate him – the one thing Daleks claimed to be good at – was astonishing.

Brown eyes met blue glow another time. The blue glow moved in closer, closer to Percy, who remained rooted to the spot, physically incapable of moving. The black sucker to the other side of the Dalek loomed in, closer, closer to Percy's face, involuntarily covering an increasing proportion of his visibility.

Percy's mind was terrible at focusing on his death. He had forgotten an important family member. Just last Saturday, Aristotle, the house cat, had proudly presented his owners with the broken, but living remains of a chaffinch found in the garden. How Percy had laughed to himself when Rhys had taken 'Stotle' into the living room and lectured him on why he should leave the wildlife alone. Kirsten had taken a much more forceful approach, giving the bird the mercy it needed – straight through the neck. How she had the guts to do that was beyond Percy.

 _I am the bird_ , Percy reflected, as the cold, black ring pressed against the edges of his face, _and this creature in front of me is the cat._

 _How many times does each Dalek get to kill in its lifetime?_ he wondered. _There are so many of them, each one must go forever without any blood._ He didn't blame the Dalek for wanting to enjoy the moment.

Percy's face slammed into an invisible mouth inside the sucker. This was going to hurt. A lot.

Everything Percy was began to slide away, pulled forcefully into the Dalek's weapon. _The ray gun would have been quick,_ Percy thought _, why couldn't I have gone that way?_ Both hands grasped onto the arm connecting the sucker to the Dalek – potentially the tube through which his life was going, as though it was actually going to make a difference. It didn't. Gradually, his consciousness and his identity began to finally drift away. The more it went, the more it felt like a mercy.

* * *

After an apparent eternity, Percy's face plucked itself away from the inside. Backwards he fell, his body hitting the ground with an uncontrolled _thud._

Realisation creeped in. Only a few, minute, insignificant seconds had actually passed. Percy could barely see, as his own right arm moved upwards to clutch his face. Spreading out his palm, he could feel that everything was normal.

Slowly, slowly he began to sit up. His surroundings were unclear – he was sat inside one of the _Torchwood Three_ hub's several laboratories. He was being killed by a Dalek – wait, no… a Dalek was trying and failing miserably to exterminate him. _What? That can't be right…_

 _No…_

 _Nope. This Dalek is definitely unable to kill me._ A smile began to work its way across Percy's face. _Maybe, just maybe I can survive this?_ Percy was daring in his dreams.

"Historical irregularity detected," the Dalek announced, screaming away in its whiny, robotic voice, "the human will come with me."

"And what happens to me if I don't," Percy responded, his perhaps not-so-imminent death filling him to the brim with courage.

"You shall be exterminated!" the Dalek cried out.

"I'm not sure I will be." Courage slowly built into confidence. "You see, you don't seem to be _able_ to exterminate me. Otherwise, you would've done it by now."

Brown eyes met blue glow. The blue glow shrank away, to form a dark outer rim within the eye stalk. The Dalek reversed from Percy. _I just fought a Dalek with words alone,_ he realised, _and I won._ The life he had lost earlier flowed back to him. He could bring up his son. He and his wife could grow old together. And, maybe, he could even fight off a few more Daleks?

Just as Percy was beginning to enjoy the moment, the Dalek's sucker made one more trip towards his face. Percy froze again. He thought he had got away with dying. As if the Dalek was going to let him go.

The looming black artefact stopped before Percy could feel it. "Scanning brain waves," the Dalek announced, "Weak point located. House detected! Exterminate!"

"No!" Percy cried. His right wrist shot up towards his mouth, wristphone clinging on tightly as ever. "Call Kirsten!" he commanded, drastically. It was all he could think to do to warn her.

A shot fired. An electric shock forced its way through Percy's body. Instantly, he regretted celebrating his survival too soon.

* * *

In. Out. In. Out. Percy gasped for breath. How did he survive that? Was he immortal? Was that his 'historical irregularity'?

He peered at his wristphone. All he saw was the exposed skin underneath which the device had formerly sat; the ground beneath presenting its broken remnants like enchiladas on a dinner plate. An incredibly accurate shot, so why couldn't the Dalek hit _him?_ Desperation began to sink in. _Like a cat playing with an entire bird's nest_ , he thought.

Before he had become fully aware of his surroundings, the darkness of the sucker's interior, and the unfriendly, clingy rub against his face took over again. Percy no longer feared for himself. His new fear was for the life of his family. _It can't kill me, but it can take my life away_ , he reflected. His face began to pull against the inside with that agonising terror that had become familiar to him by now. Only this time it felt different. He clung hard to the Dalek's arm, as his consciousness slowly drifted away. _The Dalek can detect my family from my brain waves_ , he realised. Fear took a hold. He didn't dare allow his final thoughts to be of them.


	2. An Itch to Scratch

It had been a truly terrible day for one Dalek. Since the day he had rolled out of the production line shiny and new, he had dreamed of this opportunity. _First blood_. Finally, the chance to use all the skills and the weaponry and the desire to exterminate; it had all come down to this.

The scene was only too clear inside the Dalek's memory bank. Blue glow had met brown eyes. The brown eyes were a window into the soul, into the life that was about to be extinguished. The body he had stared inside was to become completely devoid of life, as elegantly as life had entered inside, and at the Dalek's own doing. That was the most beautiful thing a Dalek could imagine.

But something was amiss. A historical irregularity. The man standing before the Dalek had a future fixed into the very fabric of time and space which could never ever be touched. Not even for a Dalek. As he had tried to shoot straight, his time sensors screeched their way straight through the heartless centre of the creature's squid-like being itself, resulting in an avoidance reflex making the Dalek incapable of killing. _Incapable of killing._ The thought could have driven the Dalek insane if he wasn't already.

Disc-like ships joined the Dalek in soaring across the night skies of Cardiff. White snowflakes danced around golden Daleks, both working their way down to the array of skyscrapers and lower buildings that made up the city. Everything below was covered in a gentle blanket of snow, with devastating patches of smoke sprinkled across the scene. A city taken by the Daleks. In the distance, an explosion fired; barely close enough to be heard, but just large enough to be seen. _Another Dalek made a kill_ , the Dalek reflected. Envy filled his circuits. Envy and impatience and ever-increasing desperation to exterminate. _Soon_ , the Dalek reminded himself. The destination was set. 15 Gale Road. And he was nearly there.

The Dalek glided onto the pavement cleanly and efficiently. Semi-detached houses lined the street; faint, boxy outlines amongst a scattering of lights, hovering above the road. An abandoned car sat solitarily on the street to the Dalek's right, doors open, footprints hastily making their way to the house to his left. The Dalek's eye stalk focused on the door. '23' it read. He was going to have to turn around.

The top dome lead the weaponry which in turn lead the skirts, as the Dalek rotated. He did not have to spin far to see a human running towards him, face turning to a look of horror and strides halting to a stop as she realised what she had encountered. The Dalek could feel her pulse racing faster than she had moved along the pavement. Blood still ran through her veins, and it had the cheek to go even faster than normal. Hatred filled the Daleks circuits.

"Halt!" cried the Dalek, "You will be exterminated!" He took immense pleasure from saying this.

"No… wait!" the human shrieked, "I was j- Aaaargh!" Her flesh transformed into a neon green glow, beholding a skeleton which tipped backwards in terror, as the Dalek fired. It was mere moments until she returned to her prior appearance, dropping completely to the ground.

The Dalek examined the corpse. Finally, for the first time, he had achieved the very objective that he was designed to do. And it was incredible. A snowdrop fell onto the human's cheek, centimetres below an eye which stared wide open. An eye which captured every detail of her final moments of fear just as they had happened, as though they were still happening, only she was dead. There was a certain beauty in that, the Dalek decided. He enjoyed the feeling tremendously. He wanted more. He wanted to kill everything that stood in his way. Everything and anything that wasn't a Dalek.

There wasn't much time. The Dalek had a mission to return to. His eye stalk examined the next door. '21'. The Dalek made his way along the street, melting the snow from under him as he trundled. '19'. The next two doors were less clear, in terms of numbers as well as where they stood. '11' read the next visible door. The Dalek rotated once again, and continued along the now-bare path. A few snowdrops had managed to settle on the human as she began to cool. But already the Dalek was focused on his next target. The next house read '15', thanks to the superstition brought about by human inferiority. It was the right one. One blast was enough to flatten the door to the ground, just as swiftly as the door to the lab had demolished.

Kirsten heard a disturbance from downstairs. And this time, it seemed too loud, too dramatic to be the cat. As if her home city being lost to an alien invasion and her husband not returning home from work without contact hadn't been enough. _Is this nightmare ever going to end,_ she asked herself. Was it a looter? Or could it even be a Dalek? The latter sounded far too likely.

"Mummy, what was that noise?" Rhys asked. He was lying in his own bed, comforted from the perils outside by the house walls, and his ever-loving mother right beside him.

"Stay here," Kirsten instructed. She wrapped a hand around her boy, bending down to give him a loving kiss on the forehead. A pink hand wrapped itself around her index finger, grasping tightly. "I'll come back when I've found out," she choked after what would never quite be a long enough while. _Rhys could well have ended up with just a single mother_ , she started to realise, with deep upset, _or even no parents at all, or…_ the thought could not pass into the thresholds of her mind. She had to do whatever she could to protect her boy. A steel broom leaned meaninglessly against the wall. Kirsten grasped the object with both hands. Barely a weapon, she knew, but it felt safer to be holding at least _something_. Maybe she could poke the intruder? Stick it through the eye stalk perhaps? Slow, nervous steps were all that she could manage. It was as though she didn't want to find out what had come to join her in her hallway.

A highly-charged blast came far too close to Kirsten. Her broom shattered into pieces like splintered wood, spreading itself across the landing. A couple of pieces danced down the stairs, into the company of a very real Dalek figure. If fear could be placed inside a metal tin, then that was what it would look like. Movement was no longer an option for Kirsten, as she remained pinned to the top step.

"Historical irregularity!" the Dalek announced. _Again_. The Dalek had had enough of this.

* * *

The Supremo Dalek sat proudly upon his perch. The flagship was huge; high enough for the Daleks around to soar menacingly as though they had reason to when inside, and extending as far as the Supremo's eye stalk needed to see. Not that he had any interest in exploring – the entire map was uploaded to his memory bank in case he wanted to explore it, and his position was right here at the heart of the Dalek Empire.

Down below, a holding cell was home to the 'historical irregularity' that had been discovered in _Torchwood Three_. Faint blue rings marked out the cell by gradually working their way from ceiling to floor, however the occasional opaque flash of cyan suggested that the human was conscious and frequently making contact with the outer rim. How foolish he was for even imagining that he could escape.

"Historical irregularity!" came the cry from the Dalek view projected for all to see. The Supremo knew that this had always been a possibility.

"Procure the humans," he instructed. At his command, the swift cyan flash of two new holding cells being formed came into view almost instantly.

Percy could not believe what he was watching. His attempt to run towards his wife and child was cut short with an almighty flash of cyan. Words could barely describe how he felt – was he happy to see his family again, or was everything made less bearable by their newfound danger?

 _This could be our last time together_ , he realised. Tears began to roll. He wouldn't dare to waste it. "I love you," he began to say, taking care to look both Kirsten and Rhys deeply in the eye. It was the first and best thing he could think of to say. "More than…"

"Cease talking!" came a deep robotic voice from above. The well-distinguished red and gold Supremo, with which Percy had already become acquainted, was gliding its way down to join the clan.

"We're gonna…"

"I said, cease talking!" the Supremo was becoming impatient. Not that Percy cared. _Maybe if it can be angered we can find a weakness?_

"Temporal shift Dalek report to duty!" the Supremo continued, seemingly as rational as ever.

Silence struck the entire family. Silence and suspense. Kirsten remained in a state of undying shock. And Rhys, such an innocent boy, glanced terrifyingly in either direction, not knowing which parent to choose. Percy could not begin to fathom what he was experiencing inside his mind.

A new Dalek emerged from what seemed like nowhere. Identical in shape to the others, it featured a plain white colouring, and a simpler-looking device in place of its gun. Percy didn't want to guess this new device's function.

"Temporal shift primed!" the white Dalek proudly announced.

"Run the experiment!" the Supremo ordered.

"I obey!" The white Dalek turned to face Kirsten. Percy watched on, helpless, wishing he could drop a ton of bricks on top of the creature, or do anything to prevent the cause of action.

"Temporal shift!" the white Dalek declared. In a time-defying act, a solid, paper-white ray emerged from its weapon, squarely hitting Kirsten in a blinding collision, promptly clearing to leave no trace.

Percy sank to his knees in despair. Cries of "Mummy!" came from Rhys' cell, but Percy had no words to say. Temporal shift sounded like a movement in time – he recognised the phrase from his degree and his job. Determination rapidly began to sink in. All of time. All of space. Soon as he could leave, he would find her. Wherever she was.

"Reconfiguration required!" the white Dalek declared. _What did this mean?_ "Reconfiguration complete!" A second fire took place. Percy could do no more but watch his only son be taken away, just as his wife had. Maybe they were in the same place? What if Percy would be transferred here too? But for what purpose?

He had run out of time to think before it was his turn.

* * *

The Temporal Shift Dalek found the results of the experiment exactly as intended. "Experiment successful!" he announced.

"The plan must go forward!" the Supremo commanded, "Begin the build process! Daleks are the masters of time!"

The entire flagship lit up with Dalek cries. "Daleks are the masters of time! Daleks are the masters of time!" The Supremo hovered its way back to its perch. He had no intention of leaving until the task was complete.


	3. The Moth and the Flame

There was a stillness, a loneliness which Rhys did not like one bit. He bent one knee to the ground, and brought down one hand to feel the red sand below him. It was not the same as the sand he had played with at the beach. It was a dry sand. A _different_ sand. The sky was red too; well, more of a burnt orange, like a sunset, but the sun was still as high in the sky as it could possibly be. Strange… he thought it was _night time_. Was this even the same planet? He had learned at school about different planets… and different types of beings on these different planets. He could name them. The Ood – friends of the humans across the galaxies. The Hath – a fishy creature from the sea worlds. And the Razza… Raxaco… somethings. Were any of them on this planet? Or were there humans just like him?

Rhys span around, searching desperately. "Mummy!" he cried, "Daddy!" one of them had to be around _somewhere_. They had to. They always were.

A creature stirred in the distance. Rhys never took his eyes off it, as it made slow, yet firm strides towards him. Even from his distance, he knew it wasn't Mummy or Daddy, but was it one of the aliens he knew? The thing was tall – even taller than Daddy, with a gigantic white bulbous head. Long, white, spindly fingers poked their way out of two massive hands. _Could it be one of the bad aliens?_ What about the Sontarans, locked forever in their battle? No, they were shorter and more like a potato. This one had heavily sunken, barely visible eyes, and a mouth-like thing which looked like it had been punched and sewn together with string.

A range of mountains peeked out nearby, gigantic mounds of land which Rhys hadn't even noticed. He took some time to examine them. The snow-capped peaks against the orange sky was a real sight to behold.

Confusion struck Rhys for a second. Was there no life on this planet at all? Maybe it was too dry for everyone? Or the mountains were too steep? How could he live here if nobody else could? He was just a boy…

Rhys saw a creature walk towards him. It was… it was the same creature he had eagerly watched earlier. He must have forgotten about it. The alien towered over him. It wasn't one of those robot monsters who had sent him here, but Rhys was just as petrified.

"Silence!" the creature commanded. Rhys dared not speak. He wouldn't even move a muscle. If he ran away, would it get him? Maybe the creature would take him away somewhere where he wouldn't see his Mummy or his Daddy or his home or his cat again?

"Silence will fall!" said the creature, in a husky, whispering tone. Its self-twined mouthpiece made no movement at all, and yet the sound still somehow worked its way out.

Rhys turned his head once more. To his left, another one of the beings had found him, staring down as intensely as the first. Two more were to his right. He could feel the presence of another behind. Panic began to strike his face. _Please don't let these be any of the bad aliens_ , he wished to himself.

Out of the corner of Rhys' left eye, yet another unusual sight made an appearance. He was familiar with teleports – maybe he had just assumed that they hadn't reached this planet. Was Mummy or Daddy materialising in front of him? He knew they would be there eventually.

No such luck. Instead, a different human woman strode into the circle of aliens, confidently and without fear. Her dark auburn hair was tied back, and she wore a long scarlet cloak, a self-supporting patch on her right eye, and a slight smile on her tiny lips. She turned her head down towards Rhys as she entered the ring, eagerly watched by the beings that formed it.

"You don't have to fear the Silence," she told Rhys, reassuringly and yet somehow with a still sinister tone, "They won't hurt you. So long as you behave." Her miniature smile extended towards her cheeks, as she dropped onto her left knee to reach eye level with the boy.

Rhys was almost too nervous to speak. "Wh-where am I?" he stammered, "Who are you?"

"My name is Kovarian, my dear…," said the woman, waiting to finish the sentence with Rhys' name.

"R-Rhys," answered Rhys, "My name is Rhys."

"My dear Rhys," Kovarian continued, "You are on the planet Gallifrey. Come with me." Her left hand made contact with Rhys', and her right tapped a button on her left wrist which sent herself and Rhys into a cosy looking room. A cream sofa spread itself across one wall, with a rectangular wooden coffee table sat in the centre. To the left of the sofa, the entire wall was one gigantic window, with possibly one of the most breathtaking views that Rhys had seen in his life. A large circular valley spread itself as far as the eye could see, the bare reddish rock contrasting perfectly with the fiery orange sky. The circle's edge was lined with houses perfectly sculpted from the same red brick, each individual structure with a unique set of shapes, ridges and statues to give them their own character. A conical hill rose above the centre of the valley, the top featuring less a peak so much as a plateau, at a level with the top of the rim. A gigantic building sat atop the plateau, complete with spires, ridges and statues enough to make the houses around the edges look like a council terrace. The top towers poked their way out of an arrangement of vibrant red grass and hedgerows, put together in the form of some magnificent estate-like gardens. Rocky ridges, the same red as the rock that surrounded, connected the houses around to the centrepiece in the middle, a new one every 30 degrees or so along. A woman in a red cloak similar to Kovarian's strode towards the centre along one of the ridges, confident that the combination of the lack of barriers and the bottomless fall below was of no danger to her.

"The Valley of the Pythia," Kovarian commentated, "Home to the Pythian Council." She paused, allowing Rhys to fully appreciate what surrounded him. "And to the lost children of Gallifrey," Kovarian added hastily.

"Lost children?" Rhys was confused.

"Why don't you take a seat?" Kovarian suggested, hinting at the cream sofa. Rhys wandered across the room, climbing up to the seat nearest the left arm – and that view. He was particularly fond of the view.

Kovarian moved her left hand to her face, to speak into the watch-like object she had used to bring Rhys to this bizarre yet beautiful place. "Kirian," she commanded, "Come down. We have a guest I want you to meet."

After a pause, a thunder of footsteps poured their way into the living room, before a nine-year-old boy ambled through the door opposite Rhys. He was a larger boy, with short, brown hair, chubby red cheeks and a head taller than Rhys.

"Rhys, this is Vandekirian," Kovarian introduced, "I took him in back when he was just three years old." She turned to Vandekirian. "Kirian, this is Rhys. He's going to live with us from now on. Shake hands, now."

Confusion hit Rhys like a bullet as Kirian greeted Rhys' right hand with his own. _I'm going to_ live _here_? But he already _had_ a home!

"What do you mean?" Rhys asked, inquisitively. Kovarian occupied the seat on the sofa next to Rhys.

"Kirian, go get us both drinks," she commanded, "I think Rhys might need one."

"Yes, Kovarian," Kirian responded drearily, before bundling his way into the door to his right.

Kovarian turned her attention to Rhys. "You didn't think you were going to go back home, did you?" she said, coldly and harshly.

Rhys dropped his head into his hands and burst into tears on the spot. "I… don't know…" he sobbed, "I just… I wanted…"

Kovarian wrapped an arm tightly around Rhys' shoulder. "You might see your mum and dad again," she reassured him, "Everybody on this planet can trace their families back to people who were moved here from your planet Earth. Your parents might have come with you, and could be waiting around to meet you again in the future." This news was music to Rhys' ears. "Or," Kovarian added, "they might not." Rhys could feel another blub come on. The thought was one he could not even bear.

It was at this moment that Kirian returned with two glasses of an unfamiliar green liquid. Kovarian passed one along to Rhys, who took a sip. It had a sweet yet slightly bitter taste, although it was difficult to tell whether that was the taste of his own tears.

"Zinberry juice," Kovarian explained, "comes from the zinberry tree, which is all over this planet." Another pause. "You are already starting to live like a Gallifreyan."

"When's he going to the temple?" Kirian butted in, impatiently.

"Shush!" Kovarian snapped, "Let me get there." She pointed her finger out of the window into the enormous valley. "That there in the middle," she explained, "That is the Temple of the Pythia. It is where us Pythians rule Gallifrey, watch all of our empire, and welcome the new arrivals to our planet. I shall arrange with the Lady Pythia for you to be brought into our world at the Temple tomorrow."

"Tomorrow?" Rhys exclaimed, "But… what if I want to be somewhere else?"

Kovarian took another glance at Rhys. "You want to stay here, believe me," she said, "This is the best thing I can do for you Rhys."

"Don't worry," Kirian added, "Gallifrey is an awesome place when you get used to it."

Rhys struggled inside his mind. Kirian was right – Gallifrey was awesome so far, but it wasn't his _home_. How could he possibly live here?

The inside of the Temple was as grand as the outside. The empty space that formed the Great Hall reached its way into the sky above, with an abundance of sculpted, pointed portions carved into the ceiling, dotted with floating rays of light to provide visibility. An array of rectangular pillars lined either side, each with their own statues on each of the four sides, a flaming torch to add mystique to the room's lighting, and an arch bridging the gap between each tower. A grid of circular pillars stretched into the distance behind the perimeter of the empty space, as far as the eye could bother to look.

One end featured one gigantic window from the heights of the ceiling to the top ridge of the door from the outside, boasting the view from the inside of the Valley of the Pythia. To the other end sat an altar, complete with a tall, thin, yellow-gold flame working its way upwards to prove that the top of the room was not untouchable after all. A woman knelt beside the flame, her wavering, flaming red hair almost blending in with her cloak. A golden crown sat atop her head, thin on the side of her pale face, but stretching upwards as it worked its way around, pointing into the centre in a perfect semicircle at the very rear.

As Kovarian marched across the room, the woman at the altar stood and turned, to reveal her true height.

Kovarian glanced upwards at the woman. "Lady Pythia," she greeted.

"Lady Heir," the Pythia replied, "I foresaw your arrival."

"I wouldn't expect anything less. So you know why I have come."

"Oh yes." The Pythia hesitated. "The boy. You have arranged to take care of him, am I correct?"

"You are correct."

"Good." The Pythia turned back to her flame, pausing for a moment to examine the entirety of its height, before rotating her head to look at Kovarian once more. "I have been given visions of the boy since the moment he arrived here." A few steps brought her closer to her heir. "You must be wise in his upbringing. I can foresee his transformation into an incredibly dangerous man to each and every one of us. Teach him the ways of the Pythia, however, and he shall bring good fortune to the entire Gallifreyan Empire."

"And if he is led astray?"

"Then the boy must die."

Kovarian blinked at the thought of her responsibility. "I take it you trust me with this task," she assumed.

The Pythia paced back to her flame once more, drawn to it like a moth. "You are correct," she said, "That is all I have to say. You may leave."

Kovarian wasted no time in her exit. She wandered across the hall, back to her home, ready to commence a new age. And she saw that it would be good.

The following morning had come around too quickly for Rhys. Despite all that Kovarian had prepared him with – some hot Gallifreyan food, a freshly-made bed, some clean pyjamas and clothes, even a toothbrush – sickness filled his child-sized mouth. This was his home now. Sleep had eluded him the previous night, but Kirian was right – he would get used to it. And maybe his Mummy and Daddy would be on the planet somewhere. He could only hope.

Having survived the crossing into the centre, the Temple of the Pythia appeared even grander than it had from the house. Rhys didn't know whether this amazed him, or whether it created a daunting feeling instead. The Great Hall was the biggest room Rhys had seen in his life, and although the Room of Integration did not compare for sheer size, it retained the same levels of grandeur.

The ceremony was of a small scale, with only Rhys, Kovarian, Kirian and the Pythia – the tall lady who ruled Gallifrey and welcomed people – present. Rhys donned a smaller red cloak, similar to those of the Pythian Council, as worn by Kovarian and the Pythia herself. Kirian was present in a more bland-looking brown garment – the traditional dress for Gallifreyan boys.

The Pythia turned to Kovarian first. "Lady Kovarian of the Council of Pythia," she recited, "Do you agree to raise the boy in the ways of the Pythia and of Gallifrey?"

"I, Lady Kovarian of the Council of Pythia, shall raise the boy as one of my own, in the ways of Pythia and of Gallifrey," Kovarian replied.

"The Pythia is grateful for your service." The Pythia turned to Rhys. "Rhys, I welcome you to the planet Gallifrey and the house of the Pythia. Please, accept this crown as a token of our acceptance." Rhys fell to both knees, before the Pythia placed a thin, golden crown atop his head. A ring of yellow flame sprouted from the top, prompting Rhys to keep his eyes firmly shut, as the Pythia uttered some words of an indistinguishable tongue. Rhys could feel the blazing heat pouring from his headpiece, but he was not burnt, just as Kovarian had told him beforehand. The process lasted for around a minute, with the flames lowering again over the course of the dying seconds.

"You shall no longer be known as Rhys," the Pythia announced, "from this day until your last, you shall be called Rassilon. You may arise."

The boy opened his eyes and climbed back to his feet. "My name is Rassilon," he repeated. A quiet, yet enthusiastic round of applause came from Kovarian and Kirian in response.


	4. A Storm is Brewing

**A/N: Now we are this far in, it is finally safe to reveal that the story is, of course, based on what we know about Ancient Gallifrey. Please note that whilst I've taken steps to ensure that key points of Gallifreyan history are accurate, there may be a bit of poetic licencing around, and also, a few details, such as the following chapter, which are, shall we say... made up entirely. Enjoy!**

* * *

Hills rolled across the landscape. A blanket of tall, scarlet grass with patches of silver-grey granite covered them, rising and rising before tumbling deep into an array of thick, lush, life-giving woodland. The native trees were characterised by their thick trunks, the red leaves beginning to surrender their pigment to form a dark brown colour, perfectly camouflaged with the bark. Some even gave way to a few bare twigs, heralding the earliest signs of winter. Contrastingly, however, the Soonwell Valley featured many a narrower tree familiar to a continent as far to the West as it was to the East, defiantly retaining its orange-red colouring as its new home fell into darkness.

Amongst the grasslands and the forests and the hills that together formed the Soonwell Valley sat the jewel in its crown. The great city of Antewell stood firmly, towering mightily above the surrounding hills, its combination of quaint stone and contemporary steel architecture proud and powerful. The Valley had been protected, ruled and kept peaceful from its characteristic Highwell Tower for fourteen years by Lord Salitrem, a man of openness who vowed never to let corruption or violence take hold. But no more.

Farax's march across the corridor was one of the greatest certainty he had felt throughout his entire life. The Highwell Tower was a complex facility, yet Farax knew exactly where he was going. Every step he took brought him closer and closer, but also led him to be more and more nervous. _Don't let yourself play his games_ , he repeated inside his mind. _Don't let yourself play his games._

An angry knock rattled the titanium door to his brother's apartment. "Pelioth!" he screamed, "I know you're in there! Pelioth!"

The door hissed as it slid marginally open. Very little of the hallway interior came into view, with an alternative revelation appearing overwhelmingly in its place.

The man standing in the doorway wore a long, grey cloak across his body and a blank, chrome mask across his face. Muscle, visible under his garment, stormed across his arms, legs and chest, whilst his anonymous head rose well above that of Farax. Another one of the stupid faceless guards that Pelioth had insisted on installing across the tower, and indeed the city.

 _Stupid_ was the right word. Whilst their lack of identity and expression parked fear into many across the building, Farax could see straight through every one of them. He didn't know what Pelioth had put into them, but he did know that if any one of this simple, obedient taskforce were to harm him without good cause, Pelioth's precious status would unravel like a string torn apart by an explosive fire.

"I have come to speak with my brother," Farax commanded the guard, "I request that you let me see him."

The guard stood as firmly as the tower itself. Farax inched nearer to the door. "I am your master's brother," he spoke, hastily, "Find him, and…"

"Let him through," came a familiar voice from out of site. The door slid across to its full capacity, to reveal the man Farax so eagerly intended to visit. "Farax," Pelioth said, as calmly as always, "come in, brother."

Farax took a step. _Don't let yourself play his games._ The door hissed shut behind him. Pelioth made no effort to escort his brother from the bare granite hallway that led to all other parts of his home. The masked man stood there, rotated to face the hallway's other inhabitants, but still the silent statue that he had been to begin with.

"Hello, Pelioth," Farax said.

" _Lord_ Pelioth," Pelioth snapped, "One week in and you still haven't congratulated me on my new title." His eyes were darker than Farax's, his face rounder, and somehow angrier at this present moment.

"Congratulations on being older than me and outliving father," Farax mocked, "Long may you continue to not die."

Pelioth's face continued to stare. "How about you cease mocking me and tell me what you actually came to say." Farax opened his mouth. His next words would be the result of relentless hours of meticulous preparation.

"Oh…" Pelioth interrupted, lifting a sharp, pointy finger into the air, "I think I know. Hmmm." He stopped for an eternal pause. "Yes. You don't think father was killed by a vampire. In fact, you're here to accuse _me_ of his _murder_. Am I right? Tell me." He ambled closer to his brother, his speech slowing. "Is that why you are here?"

 _Yes._ The sheer danger of Pelioth's combination of intelligence and ambition began to dawn on Farax. _Don't let yourself play his games._ But how to respond?

Farax was muted. "Well?" Pelioth interrogated, "Is that why you're here?" His voice loudened quickly. "Answer me! It is, isn't it?"

 _Stick to the plan._ "Yes!" Farax burst out. A chill came through him. _This is unravelling faster than a string torn apart by an explosive fire._

The next moment took forever to complete. "Alright then," Pelioth responded, "You're right. I killed him. I killed our father because I wanted his title. I wanted Soonwell Valley. But I want more than that." His tone deepened as he spoke, the pace of his words approaching light speed, his hand clenching into a fist. "We shall move across Gallifrey and across the Universe, taking every city, every land, every planet in the Gallifreyan Empire, until the Pythia have no choice but to concede that I am Emperor of Gallifrey."

Farax's ability to contain himself lessened with every word. "You..." he began, "you are a maniac!" Although his brother was taller, he did not lack the courage to scream in his face when he had to.

"What is all the noise about?" A small woman paced into the hall from behind Pelioth. Farax instantly recognised her as Yorea, the new Lady of Antewell.

Pelioth turned to face his wife. "My dear, it seems your brother-in-law is accusing me of killing my own father, and all in the name of stealing away his Lordship." He tutted.

 _He has his back turned,_ Farax realised. Could this be time for plan B? He knew the encounter may come to this. An uneasy, hesitant right arm reached gradually towards his pocket. He glimpsed around at the statue behind him. _If I kill him, that statue will move, and not in my favour._ But maybe he could run and escape? Surely justice was worth the risk? Better they both die than Pelioth rule, surely?

"Isn't that true, though?" Yorea said.

"It is, I suppose," Pelioth replied with a dark titter. He turned back to face his brother. Farax could not recall drawing the firearm from his pocket, but that didn't change the fact that it was held, arm outstretched, directed precisely in Pelioth's direction.

"So you're going to end my domination with violence?" Pelioth chuckled, "So tell me, little brother. How do you intend to survive this?"

"I don't have to," Farax's surge of adrenaline replied.

"Ok then. I guess I might as well let you live. I won't notice the difference if I'm dead." Pelioth looked other his brother's shoulder. "Guard – don't kill Farax if he shoots me. Although…," his face returned to Farax, covered with a sinister smile. "Then you would become Lord. Just think, I kill father for his title, then you kill me and… take my title. Isn't that ironic?"

 _Don't let yourself play his games._ But Farax's trigger finger had other ideas. The entire room flared a dazzling white for barely an instant, a _zap_ filling Farax's ears, before colour returned to display Pelioth's unmoving body lying on the ground, sprawled out at the feet of his Lady wife. Yorea remained silent, with one hand clasped to her mouth, and the other to her stomach, her eyes staring down at her late husband. Over Farax's shoulder, the muscular guard might as well have been a muscular statue. Was it over? Had Farax survived the encounter? _Lord_ Farax, now. _No, don't dwell of that, I am not like Pelioth_ , Farax reflected. _Or am I? Was he right?_

The corners of Yorea's mouth began to drift upward. It was not an expected reaction from a freshly bereaved widow. Farax's neck turned around as a faint _hiss_ sounded behind him. Through the now-open door trod Pelioth, dressed gloriously in a brown cloak, identical to those of his guards.

"I had ninety-four of these guards prepared," Pelioth said, "Now I have ninety-three. Slaves, all of whom I've altered to follow my exact command, and, should I die, one will become me and I will live." He glanced at his own corpse. "This is too perfect," he said, before snapping his fingers.

The statue showed signs of life again, grasping Farax's upper arms with two almighty hands and a bucketful of fear. Farax's weapon dropped to the dead Pelioth's feet with a distinct _clang_.

The guard's perspective of the shooting aired onto the wall to Farax's left. Pelioth stepped alongside his brother. "My guards are filming continuously with their masks," he explained, "They are programmed to perceive and delete anything that works against my favour. But anything that does…" His wife joined him in a controlled chortle. "You tried to kill me, I made a quick recovery, or fell over in shock, or whatever I want my people to believe, and…" He enjoyed staring his brother in the eye as the words poured out. "Justice is swift. Guard – take him to the execution chamber."

As much as Farax struggled, the time that passed before he found himself contained in a transparent vertical cylinder was not enough. His hands pressed desperately against the glass, as though he could somehow break through with whatever strength he had. Down below, a crowd had formed to witness their Lord's brother's execution.

Pelioth stood atop a podium to the right of the tube. "This man… my brother," he explained, "He is responsible for the attempted murder of none other than the Lord and Protector of your very city!" The video of the shooting aired across the crowd for all to see, met with a variety of _gasps_ and shudders. _If only they knew the truth,_ Farax reflected, _they would gasp and cry out harder than ever before._

"Fortunately your Lord was unharmed, but even so, this is the highest form of treason," Pelioth continued, "And I will deal with his justice myself!" A panel rose in front of him, consisting of one threatening red button. Pelioth's palm slammed against the control.

 _I will not scream_ , Farax decided. "Aaaarghhh!" he screamed, as he collapsed to the ground, his body turning to dust. _It will be over soon_ , he reflected.

Soon, it was over, as a flaky mound sat motionless in the cylinder where Farax had once been. Pelioth glanced to his left, before returning to face the crowd.

"It was a vampire that took my Lord father during the night," Pelioth choked to the crowd, before taking a moment to recover. "If we are to survive the long nights, this barbaric infighting must cease. We must all be behind our Lord and our lands!" A chrome-masked guard marched to the forefront. "Ninety-three of my guards now patrol the city. They are to keep you, my people, safe from the very terrors that took my father. Do not fear them. They are your own people, here, for you." A cheer rose from down below. "Thank you, Antewell," Pelioth responded, before casually turning from his people and walking away to his wife.

"Now there is nobody to stop us," said Yorea, gleefully, "Lord of Soonwell Valley."

Pelioth paused for a second. "Do they love me? Or do they fear me?"

"Does it matter?"

"I killed my own brother in front of thousands and they cheered me. Did they honestly like what they saw? Or did they feel they had to? What if there's another uprising?"

"Then we'll destroy them like we did your brother, the traitor," Yorea assured her husband, "They all saw who he was. They all respect you and will follow you every step of the way until you have defeated the Pythia and become Emperor of Gallifrey. Our child… our children shall rule after us, and the Sheverell dynasty shall reign for generation after generation." She kissed him squarely on the lips.

"Emperor of Gallifrey," Pelioth repeated. The title had a remarkable ring to it.


	5. Alpha

The Great Hall of the Temple of the Pythia seemed all too large for the twelve sisters who stood, proud and cloaked, six lining each side of the massive walkway towards the towering flame. This was clear from the sheer time which had elapsed during the Pythia herself's journey from the door to her High Council. As she finally reached the women who patiently awaited her, they spared her the courtesy of a small bow of the head, two at a time as their leader stepped between them towards her flame. The final nod to her left came from her heir the Lady Kovarian, as nonchalant as the rest, eyepatch as present as ever.

At the flame the Pythia stood, silent for moments, her sisters' heads still bowed as they had been since they had been passed. Eventually, the Pythia turned to face her High Council, arms airborne, Ancient High Gallifrey spewing from her mouth almost indecipherably. In front of and behind each sister, the floor raised gradually, all thirteen inhabitants rigid amongst the change in their surroundings.

The table to have appeared from the stone tiles formed a coating which blended with the cloaks of the council, lined with a gold perfectly matching the blaze that appeared to pour upwards from their leader's crown. A similar trim glorified the seats which appeared behind each sister, the Pythia's throne just a little more elegant than the rest, providing her with rests for her arms and an array of perfectly-balanced laced metalwork behind for her stature.

"Please be seated," the Pythia instructed, as all thirteen sisters lowered themselves to their places. "We have much to discuss." Her eyelids pressed together in a silent moment of concentration. "The masters have allowed me to see a great many visions of what is to come." Her pause was tranquil, her breathing slow. The sisters watched on, twenty-four eyes waiting patiently for two to reopen. As the Pythia's eyelids began to separate delicately, all thirteen participants hovered downwards towards their places.

The Pythia wasted no time in turning her head to her right, her two eyes meeting Kovarian's left eye and her patch squarely. "Two months," she began, "how does the boy Rassilon fare?"

Kovarian was startled. "Rassilon?" she asked, "Forgive me, my lady, but… what inspires you to bring him up with such urgency?"

The Pythia's face turned to dismay. "Do you not see the significance of this boy to our order? To the very future of our planet? I hope I have not misplaced my trust by placing him in your care, my lady!"

Kovarian spoke quickly. "No. Of course." she began, words tumbling, "He… he whimpers occasionally, much as any boy that age would when adapting to this unfamiliar world."

"But who might he become?" The Pythia did not like to be kept waiting.

"You tell me, seer of the future," Kovarian remarked. A chuckle surrounded the table, although the Pythia's expression remained unmoved. Kovarian decided that she was never going to react. "He is a smart boy, my lady," Kovarian continued, "he will go places. So far his faith seems to be with our order, although the allegiance of a young child as he reaches adulthood is tricky to foresee, even for somebody of your talents."

The Pythia nodded in agreement. "And if he should deviate from the correct path?"

"He shall be terminated." Kovarian instantly reassured her.

"Then we must continue." the Pythia flicked through the agenda of her mind with her eyes. "A sighting heralds from the city of Antewell, capital of the Soonwell Valley. The new Lord Pelioth has executed his own brother for an attempt on his life. The masters have shown me that he shall begin his conquest of our planet in the near future." Her eyelids pressed firmly together, a droplet struggling away from the corner of the one to the left. "I see that he has moulded… enslaved over one hundred guards now… he can possess any… any one… he… he will only die once all are terminated. There is no stopping this man… oh…" The Pythia continued her tremble in silence. "Gradia," she finally said, eyes switching to an openness barely perceived possible, focused on the younger lady two places to her left, "You must meet with this man. Try to talk some peace into him. See what he wants." Her eyes tightened shut once more. "Or I fear for our very rule, and for the future of our planet itself."

"Of course, as you command, my lady," Gradia replied, fulfilling her role as sister of diplomacy. Kovarian sat bolt upright within the confines of her seat, her eyes as transfixed on the Pythia as the Pythia was on Gradia. _Could it really be true? A revolution that might actually succeed?_ Maybe this was why the Pythia had taken such an interest in Rassilon. The man to defend the Pythia from this Lord Pelioth perhaps? _No, it was far too soon. He would never mature in time._ Kovarian began to puzzle herself over her lady Pythia's mind. Time had little opportunity to pass before she realised the futility of such an enquiry.

The next two hours dragged as much as they should every week. Finances, trade deals, security, laws – not one person on the council spoke with great levels of passion, least of all Kovarian. As the Lady Heir, she was responsible for those that made up the empire, the enslaved planets, held together mysteriously by secrets known only to her and her lady Pythia. The other eleven sisters drew much contempt over these; showing how little had changed from the council of the first Pythia to the council of the five hundred and eighth. It was therefore traditional for the heir to remain relatively quiet during the weekly council meetings, and occasionally use the opportunity to catch up on some much-required sleep.

But not today. Today, the Pythia had opened rather curiously. _A revolution that might actually succeed?_ The thought played again and again in her head, which barely drooped below the shoulders as such as meeting might usually force it to do. This Lord clearly wasn't the Omega – he had a father on Gallifrey. The Omega, on the other hand, was to appear from Earth, like Rassilon did – the final new arrival, in fact, according to the Pythia's prophecies. But was he involved?

"That is all," the Pythia announced, mercifully, having finished a sentence which went over Kovarian's head. Unlike her sisters, the Pythia never appeared to suffer from the loss of enthusiasm that was inevitable from her council's weekly meetings. _Is this what being Pythia really does to you?_ Kovarian wondered. As her leader began the routine to lower the council table once again, Kovarian's mind remained focused solely on this Lord Pelioth. There was little that could be done to faze the Pythia as he had. What prophecies could she possibly have seen? How devastating? How?

* * *

The thought had not eluded Kovarian come the evening. The boy Rassilon lay comfortably in his bed, awake, but not for much longer. Surely it was far too early for him to be fighting corrupt Lords and other dangerous men? He was falling asleep to a softly-spoken story, still barely at peace with his own home planet.

A roll of white paper sat atop Rassilon's desk. Curiosity dug into Kovarian, prompting her to lean over for a read.

"My scroll," Rassilon commented.

"Your what?" Kovarian turned to face the child.

"My scroll. Every time I hear about something big that happens in my new home, I'm going to write about it on that scroll. See?"

The majority of the paper remained blank, leaving for a title and a mark in the top right hand corner. _The Scroll of Rassilon_ , the title read, in the boy's native English language, rather than the adopted Gallifreyan text of his new home. It was not this, however, which caught Kovarian's eye. To the right of the title sat a perfectly-drawn circle, with a horizontal and vertical figure-eight intersecting each other across the centre, scraping the edges of the circle on four points. A thickly-smudged dot graced the centre of each of the four loops.

"What is this symbol?" Kovarian asked, pointing a lengthened fingernail to the circle.

"Oh," Rassilon replied, "That's just a doodle. I decided to draw it on everything I write about."

Kovarian let out a tiny smile. She could not help but feel a certain hope drawn from the child's ideas. A hope that he might become the man that the Pythia envisioned that he would become?

"Never stop," Kovarian instructed, leaning closer to her adoptive boy, "Keep writing things on your scroll. You will need them when you are older. Make sure people know who you are."

"Goodnight, Kovarian," Rassilon said, rolling himself deeper into his sheets.

Kovarian took a hand to the bed covers, wafting them snugly over the boy. She raised herself promptly from her seat, stepping towards the door, wafting her hand across the lightswitch as she marched down the stairs and towards her living room.

Her feet skidded from the ground as she crashed onto the sofa. She turned to face her television projection, waving her hands around in order to switch it on and alter the programme that was playing. One hour of _the High Gallifreyan Stew Off_ was quickly followed by several episodes of her lengthy favourite _Lords of Logloria,_ a series about the many attempts to dethrone the majestic King Iliar, and how they always, inevitably, failed.

Deep into the night, Kovarian had not moved an inch from her spot. Eventually, her tranquil evening was interrupted by her doorbell wanting her attention.

Finally, movement occurred, as she trod across the living room to her front door.

"Is it done?" she asked, her mouth evolving into a wry smile.


	6. Whispering Eyes

A brighter atmosphere befell the Great Hall the following morning. The torches remained flickering into an eerie, continuous disappearance, not least of all the heightened flame of the Pythia. But the red stone had adopted a more pink-like hue somehow, especially when compared with the chilling blood red of the previous day's council meeting.

"You asked to see me, Lady Pythia," said Kovarian.

The Pythia emerged from behind her flame, her cloak obscuring none of her crown, her arms outstretched, her hands placed a distance in front of her face. "There is news from Antewell," she announced, "news which I was not given until the occasion of its happening."

"Time changes," Kovarian reminded her, "Misplaced prophecies happen all the time."

"Indeed, time is an unreliable beast, which can never be tamed," the Pythia echoed, "and who better to know than she who may see into the future? There is no concern, for the news is good."

"Oh, really?" Kovarian marvelled. _What could this be?_

"Lord Pelioth of Antewell has fallen in the night. A vampire took him. I have seen it."

"But… I thought he could not be killed? He would just assimilate into a guard?"

"All one hundred and seven guards were killed just as Pelioth was. I watched them. The same man ran and ran and ran, again and again and again until every single version of him was eliminated by the creatures of the night."

"And all of them vampires?"

"Every single one of them. It seems we were not the only party with an agenda against this man."

The scale of the coincident timing leapt to the front of Kovarian's mind. The universe would rarely allow a rescue this convenient, and the Pythia knew it. "But… what if his followers in the Soonwell Valley come to discover our concern with their Lord?" she speculated, "What if they discovered that Gradia contacted him to discuss peace?"

"I did not." Gradia emerged from behind Kovarian's back, "As soon as I returned home I… I found myself here. It was morning. It was as though I had been knocked out, kidnapped and locked inside the temple."

"That's a good guess," Kovarian assessed.

"What do you mean?"

Kovarian snapped her fingers. The door behind Gradia swished open, as a line of heightened, bulbous Silents crept inside the temple hall.

"That's…" Gradia began, "I was so wrong. How could I forget?"

"Go on…" Kovarian encouraged her.

"One of those _things_ was in my living room yesterday!" Gradia observed, "it stretched out an arm, and then… there I was, seated inside a cramped cell, staring at another. I did not sleep a wink all night, before I was released into this very hall. Why did I not remember this?"

"I remember you, Silence!" the Pythia realised.

"Very good!" Kovarian remarked.

"What _are_ they?" Gradia asked, drowned in confusion.

" _They_ are how Gallifrey's slave empire stays a slave empire," the Pythia explained. "It is true that the Pythia does not see all, for the heir must burden the patch of the Silence!"

"What?"

"My eye patch," Kovarian snapped, a spindly finger aimed at the black disc which graced her face, "I can remember them when I cannot see them – I wouldn't if I didn't wear this cumbersome thing!"

"But I can't…"

"No. The moment you, the Pythia or any spies looking on turn away they're going to forget all of this, so I might as well reveal all. After you were escorted to this very temple, three hundred of my Silents walked into the city of Antewell. They found Lord Pelioth, and all one hundred and seven of his guards, killing them all. And then, they just… vanished. Like the ghosts of the castle. Or… vampires."

"And everybody just forgot."

"And they all just… forgot. Poof. Like magic. Except…" Kovarian left an anxious pause, a gleeful smile gracing her face.

"Except?" Gradia echoed.

"Except that's not quite true. The Silence can leave whispers. Traces in people's minds. The people who were closest to Pelioth were the most powerful, meaning that any one of them could lead another revolution just as damaging. That or they'll fight each other in a civil war."

"Surely we must work with them to ensure peace?"

"No!" Kovarian snapped. Her voice echoed a thousand times across the ceilings, walls and pillars. "Any involvement from us would arouse suspicion from them. So we give them something less significant to quarrel over and let them destroy themselves."

"Like what?"

"Your mysterious disappearance last night. One Silent told Pwara the ship builder that you had been executed after you had wanted us to kill Pelioth, rather than talk peace. Another told Thelarix, owner of most of Soonwell's farmlands, that you had left on principle after we threatened to destroy them. Pwara has never been too invested in being Empress of Gallifrey, but Thelarix would grace that chair very happily. Thelarix wants Pwara's ships to find you and give you a role you, while Pwara herself believes he is trying to con her."

Gradia had lost track at the phrase 'your mysterious disappearance'. She shifted nervously. Greater, more immediate worries clogged her thinking than who was trying to use whom to what end in a valley the other side of Gallifrey. "What… wh… what are you doing?" she stammered.

"Another Silent told the bereaved Lady Yorea that you had been killed before you could discuss peace on behalf of the Pythia," Kovarian continued, "He died immediately, but sacrifices had to be made. Her husband had just been murdered, so I thought she deserved the truth."

Gradia made no sound. The door was behind her. Maybe she could escape? She turned to flee. Her legs were carrying her towards the exit. The distant glow of the sun through the door was getting brighter and brighter and brighter… until…

The warmth of the sunshine graced Gradia like a blanket of safety and peace. She shook her head for a moment. What had she run from? What was she doing here? She was talking to Kovarian and the Pythia inside the temple, and then... she was outside. Had she been sent out with an instruction? Early as it was, she really needed to pay more attention to her leaders. The balls of her feet carried her swiftly to face the opposite direction, preceding a march towards the door once again.

The temple was empty except for Gallifrey's two leading women. An array of confusion hit Gradia like a ton of bricks. The Pythia was solemn in her stance, Kovarian less so. She had never trusted the Pythia's heir. Should she really have returned?

Kovarian stepped up close to Gradia. Bulbous Silents wondered into view. Everything came flooding back to her. The creature inside her house. The cell. Kovarian's threats. The thick and unmemorable details of a devious plan. All in an array of confusion as to how to react.

"Finally," Kovarian said, her powerfully minted breath becoming clear to Gradia, "A fourth Silent informed Colonel Tay that you had assisted Lady Yorea in murdering her husband, before escaping to an outlying planet. You would have preferred that, wouldn't you?" The towering, creepy figure raised a lengthy arm directly at Gradia's heart. Jet blue bolts emerged from its well-extended fingers, crackling from across its arm and from what should have been its mouth, shooting themselves instantly and with a great surge of power under Gradia's very skin. The Silent appeared to be making a dark hissing sound, as though it was sucking her in. Amongst the agony, Gradia prepared herself mentally for the lurch forward that inevitably was to come. The red stone around her began to blacken. Would she still be alive for-

The lurch forward never came. Instead, Gradia tore apart at an instant as though she was an autumnal pile of leaves which had been kicked straight through the centre of, before blowing gracefully across the room and taking a few seconds to individually dissolve into an untraceable nonexistence.

"You can't," the Pythia protested, "You have no right…"

Kovarian snapped the fingers on her right hand. Almost in unison, the Silence turned to face a multitude of exits to the sides of the Great Hall, stepping away with accomplishment.

The Pythia continued in her ignorance. "I have another vision," she calmly reported, turning back towards her flame with her arms outstretched once more. "More and more which I had failed to foresee."

"Go on…" Kovarian insisted.

"The news is not good. The diplomat Gradia has died unexpectedly. There were no witnesses."

"Sad news indeed. Do you know whether she had contacted Lord Pelioth before she died?"

"I believe she did not. A minor relief – they may have blamed us for the death of their Lord otherwise. Their revolution may have been sparked once more."

"It still might."

"Let me see." The Pythia's eyes tightened shut. "I see a terrible war. A military coup against Lady Yorea will rise across the Soonwell Valley, both sides backed tremendously with warriors and rich traders alike. Yorea herself shall be forced to flee in a matter of months, but the conflict shall not end there. New leaders shall rise from every side and every corner, and fall far, far further. Sibling will be turned against sibling. Those who were united against us will be destroying each other, and the Pythia will rule over all for many more years to come."

"Then today is a good day," Kovarian summarised, as she turned to saunter off to her home, a relieved smirk crossing her face.


	7. Inside the Crystal Ball

The head office of _Starflight_ smelled faintly of the ever-red tree that climbed as high as the tower itself, the final remnants of its branches and its eternally scarlet leaves visible as it heightened past the impressive circular sky roof, and the floor to ceiling windows just below. Whilst many had been puzzled by Managing Director Pwara's decision to ask the architect to allow the local botany become such a feature of Antewell's Star Tower, but when one has the opportunity to spend her days working surrounded by such a feat of nature, Pwara was not keen to let it slide. Regularly she would stare upwards, at this time not quite able to view the lone sun, slowly fulfilling its dominance over the multitude of stars which had stood in its place throughout the night, the copper sky beginning to glow as it had done shortly before that night which had changed the world. Upwards – that was where Pwara and the entirety of _Starflight_ looked. That was why her office was all this way above the ground – she was an unthinkable distance from the floor anyway, so why not go further?

Pwara was not the only to experience the sheer distance towards the sky that day. "The visitor has arrived," her intercom system chimed, buzzing at full pelt from her semicircular wooden desk. One day she would figure out which part of the desk the sound originated from, but that day would have to give over to far more pressing matters. She had a client.

"Send him up," she snapped in a harsh voice. She leaned back in her seat. The lift was going to take a while. Would now be a good time to locate the speaker?

That thought had to be held a little longer, for her guest was working his way up the tower. She knew exactly what he was going to say. She had not become the successful businesswoman that she was by surrendering meetings such as this to chance. The man had news, and already she knew his news. He also came with an opportunity, no doubt. After all, he had not become the lucrative businessman that he was by disregarding opportunities such as those his news would bring. And certainly not by failing to contact exactly who he required at the precise moments that he required them.

Pwara watched on, facing the silver double doors from the opposite side of the room as they hissed open. The man who strolled inside, sporting a shady black cloak, was around twenty years her senior, had a gut to prove it, and was the owner of the vast majority of all farmland across the Soonwell Valley.

"Good morning, Thelarix," Pwara greeted, cheerily, "what a pleasure it is."

"Please, Pwara," Thelarix replied, "Let us talk business. I come with news, and I come with an opportunity." Pwara allowed herself a thin smile at her own brilliance. _Just like a book_.

"That is something I have heard many times through all the years," she said, "Some have delivered that promise, and others, less so." She stared deep into her fellow entrepreneur's dark eyes. An outreaching hand stretched across the desk towards a tall wooden chair positioned to face its owner. "Please, take a seat," she continued, "Tell me your news."

Thelarix sat down, squirming a little before he spoke. "Lord Pelioth…"

"Is dead," Pwara interrupted, "Vampires took him, along with his entire guard, in the early hours of the morning before the sun could rise. News travels fast, Thelarix, - is there anybody in this damn valley who doesn't know that yet?"

Thelarix hid an expression of surprise at Pwara's knowledge. "His death was merely three hours ago; most of Antewell is barely awake."

"And you thought I might be one of those people?" Pwara let out a loud tut. "Thelarix, take a look around."

Thelarix surveyed the office. The impressive windows. The skyroof. The mighty tree outside and the interior to go with-

"Do you honestly think I got here by not knowing about every little detail about everything remotely significant the moment it takes place?"

"My apologies," Thelarix retorted, "of course not. I presume you will therefore already know of the opportunity I bring with my news?"

Pwara smiled to herself. The man across her desk had proven far too predictable. "You want me to help you become Lord of Antewell instead of Lady Yorea."

Thelarix raised himself from his chair. Calmly, he took a stroll along the radius of the office, halting just in time to prevent himself from smashing into a window. Pwara's office leant itself to one of the most complete views in the entire Soonwell Valley – the city of Antewell stood to one side in all its glory, the complete Citadel easily visible due to the distance between itself and the tower. But all this was behind Thelarix. Down below sat rolling hills of forests and farms as far as the eye could see – tiny ant-like machinery gathering together the harvest for the year to come. Thelarix's very own empire of crops and sustenance to the entire valley and beyond. Oh, how easy it would be for him to take such a necessity away from them…

"I came from such humble beginnings," he explained, "My father was an everyday farmer-"

"Can you please just skip to what you want?" Pwara interrupted. Thelarix turned, stunned, briefly staring at Pwara's bored expression, before proceeding to make his way to the window to the opposite side of the room.

"Very well," Thelarix continued, watching over the city. "Yes, this is what I want. To begin with, anyway. After all, why stop it there? With your help, we could become conquerors of Gallifrey. We could…"

Pwara snorted. Thelarix lashed around to face her once more. Despite her many efforts, she could not resist bursting into laughter. "So that is where you and I differ," she chuckled after a few moments had passed, "Here in the skies, I have everything I have ever hoped to achieve when I started out." A long pause followed whilst Pwara regained her composure. "I pity you, Thelarix. You will never truly know what a joy that is."

"Oh, I will," Thelarix snapped.

"When?" Pwara asked, "You just told me – Lord of Antewell isn't enough for you. In fact, nothing ever will be."

"But…" Thelarix paused to think, "We could forge alliances."

"Really? With whom?"

A wave of smug positivity crossed Thelarix's face. "How about a sister of the Pythia herself?"

Pwara froze. _Really? A sister of the Pythia?_ "Which… one?" she finally asked.

Thelarix chortled. "Lady Gradia, sister of diplomacy. Former sister, anyway. She left the sisterhood on principle so she would have no part in Pelioth's murder – something arranged by the sisterhood themselves; let's not kid ourselves. No doubt she is now a wanted woman – I'm sure she will be most grateful for the safety that our city provides. She would be an honoured guest of ours, thanks to her inside knowledge, and with the Pythia themselves murdering their own much-loved Lords, who knows who will be ready to strike against them?"

Wood scraped violently against wooden floorboards as Pwara lurched from her seat. "Who are you trying to fool?" she snapped, "Lady Gradia is dead!"

Confusion struck Thelarix from head to toe. "I'm sorry what?"

Pwara marched towards Thelarix, until he could hear her breathing. A little lady, she was a full foot shorter than Thelarix, but this was never something which concerned her. "If you are as intelligent as we both believe you are," she cried, "then you will know full well that Gradia was the one wishing to murder Pelioth. The sisterhood executed her for her refusal to co-operate. Pity they couldn't prevent those vampires from doing their business here."

"You do not know-"

Pwara's voice roared to a scream. "Again!" she yelled, "You have done nothing except belittle my knowledge and my abilities since you walked in through that door."

"The sisterhood is planting this… they want us to fall apart because of their lies… can't you see?"

Pwara gave a sharp look upwards. "Please leave," she demanded, with a surprisingly emotionless yet irritable expression, "Don't make me force you out."

Before Thelarix could walk, however, the _hiss_ of the door returned.

"Sorry," Thelarix said, returning to face Pwara, "I invited guests."

Two men with two-handed laser blasters marched inside, side-by-side, standing to face each other with their guns vertical. A third, bald man, as well-decorated as he was built, marched between them, greeted by the salute of Thelarix.

"Colonel Tay," Thelarix greeted.

"Thelarix," Tay replied, before moving his expressionless glance towards the owner of the building, "Pwara."

Thelarix's hand returned from his forehead. "Colonel," he began, "I have invited you to discuss…"

"I know what you wish to discuss," Tay snapped, "Lord Pelioth was not only a close ally of mine, but a dear friend. And now it remains my solemn duty, on behalf of the Soonwell military, to avenge his death as fit."

"By killing who?" Pwara asked, curious for a third version of events, "The vampires?"

"No," Tay declared, "I am talking about the woman behind the vampires."

Pwara breathed a sigh of relief. "Thank you, Colonel," she said, "but Gradia was executed by the Pythia."

"Gradia lives," Tay snapped. Thelarix stared across in a moment of hope. "She now resides inside Highwell Tower, with her accomplice, Lady Yorea. Now set to rule over all of Soonwell Valley, with significant influence from Gradia and her sisterhood, no doubt." He snorted. "That woman… that… creature was the devil personified. I never trusted her! Not ever!" In one swift move, his composure dwindled away and then promptly returned.

"So you're saying Yorea murdered her husband with the help of Gradia?" Pwara enquired.

"That is the news, is it not?"

"No!" Thelarix barked. "Can't you see? A different story for each of us. The sisterhood means to break us apart before we can rebel against them."

The room fell silent in a moment of ponderance. Thelarix and Tay shared something which she did not – a blinding will to take back the Valley, at all costs. However, what they did not currently own, unlike her, was the ground directly beneath their feet. "Seeing how you two are going to cast your own delusions aside and ally with one another, let's cut to the chase," she said, marching confidently towards her desk. A tiny hand reached below the top surface, prompting the entire layer to flip over itself. "The control panel," she announced.

Thelarix and Tay watched on, not a muscle daring to move out of line. Tay had been seasoned by years of military experience. Compared with the dangers and atrocities he had seen by the side of Lord Pelioth, Pwara could do nothing to place fear into him. Thelarix, meanwhile, had not benefitted from such a background.

"What… what does that thing do exactly?" he stammered.

Pwara silently and focusedly reached both hands onto the cumbersome levers which sat either side. A faint, high-pitched _whir_ began to sound, rapidly incrementing in both volume and frequency, to the extent to which Thelarix almost keeled over in shock. Tay remained tall against the device, watching intently as narrow, vertical chrome bars circled the gigantic windows.

"Take-off," Pwara replied. A dainty index finger tapped onto a circular screen in the centre of the console. That instant, a section of floor centimetres from Thelarix's feet burst lowered beyond sight, much to his startlement, before realigning again as though intact the whole time. "The entire top level is a ship," Pwara continued, "and that floor detaches whenever I want it to, directly into a chute working its way down to the ground level. Or directly from the bottom whilst mid-flight; whichever suits you." The innocence which befell her face as she spoke did nothing to hide the intent in her voice.

"Step away from the desk!" Tay yelled, as the two men standing either side of him immediately thrust.

"Give the order," Pwara threatened, "I dare you."

"Don't give the order!" Thelarix cried, throwing himself in front of the Colonel, "If we die, how can we avenge Lord Pelioth?"

"By taking down one of his killers' main accomplices," Tay yelled, "I will-"

"She's not an accomplice!" Thelarix turned to Pwara, trembling with fear and confidence. "Can't you both see? Somebody wants us to fight, and they are getting what they wished for!" A calm arm was raised towards Pwara. "Let's settle this down, and figure out who our common enemy is and how we are going to fight them!"

All that sounded for a few seconds was the _whir_ of the top level's engines, still in standby.

"Guards!" Tay cried, "On my command…"

Pwara tapped at her desk. Thelarix's heart plummeted faster than he plummeted to the ground himself. His eyes closed. His eyes opened to the sound of a loud _shriek_ from the Colonel's men, as they vanished below the floor to a certain doom. Thelarix's breathing intensified. Tay's arm reached into his own pocket.

"Point that thing at me Colonel and the whole floor vanishes!" Pwara threatened instantly, "You're not going to win."

"Pwara…" Thelarix began.

"I will not play your war games!" Pwara snapped, "This ends, here." An array of fingers danced across the panel. "Entering the takeoff phase. I suggest you leave before I throw both of you out. Literally."

Thelarix turned towards the door. Tay hesitated a moment, reluctant to let his mission end, until Thelarix passed him.

"You're not going to achieve anything here, Colonel," Thelarix informed him, before Tay joined the man in exiting the room.

Above the heads of the two men, the _whir_ continued, joined by a few jolts of metal, all ending with the distant fade of the engine's sound as the ship removed itself from the tower that it had occupied.

* * *

"Exactly as I had prophesised," the Pythia chanted as her eyes opened once more to the world inside the Temple, "Antewell is split. The Soonwell Valley shall be at war with itself rather than the planet."

Kovarian's dry lips beamed. "Tell me the details," she enquired, "How will it happen?"

The Pythia examined her own world once more. "The alliance of Thelarix and Tay shall storm the Highwell Tower," she described, "and Yorea shall find herself exiled; isolated and vulnerable. She shall fall to a terrible illness, and perish after a few months."

"An illness," Kovarian remarked with disappointment. "Was hoping for something more dramatic. Like an execution."

The Pythia comprehensively failed to register Kovarian's comment. "An uprising shall be led by Pwara and later, her only son," she continued, "Twenty-three years of excessive war shall follow, until… until…" Her eyes were opened wider than the Lethe River during flooding season, her mouth forming a near-perfect circular shape. "The…"

Kovarian was astonished to see her ruler displaying such an emotional response. "Pythia…" she began.

"The… The Omega… The Omega shall… shall arise from the centre of… of the fight," the Pythia gasped. She leapt several steps backwards as she spoke, narrowly avoiding kindling her garment on the spindling fire behind her.

Kovarian caught up to the Pythia. Emotional response – that was new. She stepped forward until her own intrigued eyes were rooted deep into the world her leader had witnessed. "Easy, Pythia," she soothed, severely. She made no attempt at a physical touch. "The Omega… we have twenty-three years to prepare. Rassilon will be twenty-nine years old then – he should be ready."

"Rassilon and the Omega shall become the two great minds of a generation; one shall kill the other and then… I see too much… Kovarian…" She collapsed into the arms of her heir, her mind choosing to switch away from the realities it had encountered and into a void of confusion instead.

Kovarian examined the Pythia's flaming red hair. Contact was definitely not an area of comfort for her. Indeed, neither was a position of responsibility to reassure. "There there," she said, dryly, attempting to wrap her arms across the Pythia's cloak.


End file.
